The Damned Read Online

It was heated with hot-water

pipes, and hung with Doré’s pictures, though these latter were soon

removed and stored out of sight in the attics as being too

unspiritual. In polished, shiny wood, it was a representation in

miniature of that poky exclusive Heaven he took about with him,

externalising it in all he did and planned, even in the grounds about

the house.

Changes in The Towers, Frances told me, had been made during

Mabel’s year of widowhood abroad—an organ put into the big hall, the

library made liveable and recatalogued— when it was permissible to

suppose she had found her soul again and returned to her normal,

healthy views of life, which included enjoyment and play, literature,

music and the arts, without, however, a touch of that trivial

thoughtlessness usually termed worldliness. Mrs. Franklyn, as I

remembered her, was a quiet little woman, shallow, perhaps, and easily

influenced, but sincere as a dog and thorough in her faithful

Friendship. Her tastes at heart were catholic, and that heart was

simple and unimaginative. That she took up with the various movements

of the day was sign merely that she was searching in her limited way

for a belief that should bring her peace. She was, in fact, a very

ordinary woman, her calibre a little less than that of Frances. I knew

they used to discuss all kinds of theories together, but as these

discussions never resulted in action, I had come to regard her as

harmless. Still, I was not sorry when she married, and I did not

welcome now a renewal of the former intimacy. The philanthropist she

had given no children, or she would have made a good and sensible

mother. No doubt she would marry again.

‘Mabel mentions that she’s been alone at The Towers since the end

of August,’ Frances told me at tea-time; ‘and I’m sure she feels out

of it and lonely. It would be a kindness to go. Besides, I always

liked her.’

I agreed. I had recovered from my attack of selfishness. I

expressed my pleasure.

‘You’ve written to accept,’ I said, half statement and half

question.

Frances nodded. ‘I thanked for you,’ she added quietly, ‘explaining

that you were not free at the moment, but that later, if not

inconvenient, you might come down for a bit and join me.’

I stared. Frances sometimes had this independent way of deciding

things. I was convicted, and.punished into the bargain.

Of course there followed argument and explanation, as between

brother and sister who were affectionate, but the recording of our

talk could be of little interest. It was arranged thus, Frances and I

both satisfied. Two days later she departed for The Towers, leaving me

alone in the flat with everything planned for my comfort and good

behaviour—she was rather a tyrant in her quiet way—and her last

words as I saw her off from Charing Cross rang in my head for a long

time after she was gone:

‘I’ll write and let you know, Bill. Eat properly, mind, and let me

know if anything goes wrong.’

She waved her small gloved hand, nodded her head till the feather

brushed the window, and was gone.

II

and then a letter came; there were various suggestions for my welfare,

and the rest was the usual rambling information and description

Frances loved, generously italicised.

‘… and we are quite alone,’ she went on in her enormous

handwriting that seemed such a waste of space and labour, ‘though some

others are coming presently, I believe. You could work here to your

heart’s content. Mabel quite understands, and says she would love to

have you when you feel free to come.